


Silent and Resigned

by BrazenMonkey



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, F/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, communication problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrazenMonkey/pseuds/BrazenMonkey
Summary: He can't remember how they ended up in this twisted situation. He had given Madame Giry his word to behave and he had really believed them, at least at first. He had tutored her, schooled her voice, helped her with her training, and had fully meant to be nothing but the docile angel that she had imagined him to be. But his resolve had soon slipped.





	Silent and Resigned

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I would not cave and dive fully into a fandom that I have loved and followed silently for such a long time. But I could not help myself and wrote this little fic that has plagued me for weeks!
> 
> I hope I did them justice. UnBeta'd, written just because this idea haunted me. ConCrit is highly appreciated!

Christine is glowing when she returns from the stage. In his hiding spot behind the mirror, he can finally hear her approaching steps. He would recognize her light tread everywhere.

He can still hear the little Giry girl trailing behind her, with incessant questions and praise for her performance. The ballet girl's voice if full of a peculiar mixture of envy and curiosity - _who is this new tutor?_

He wants to laugh. So Madame Giry has kept their little secret. She knows full well who it is that has tutored Christine for so many months. She had even encouraged him, thought it might bring his infatuation with her some relief. Better to be close to her in such an innocent way of tutor and student than to have him pine after her in the rafters, in the boxes and in the den he calls his home.

Foolish woman. If she knew the full extent of their encounters, they would find the Opera Ghost strung up by his own lasso. And he could not even blame her for doing so.

Christine has finally managed to shoo Meg away and sinks into the chair by her vanity table. She modestly ties a thin dressing gown about her small frame, hiding the luscious Elissa costume. The red and green colours and the sparkling fabric suit her. And he cannot ignore the surge of want it pushes through his body to see her naked legs peeking out from under the frilly skirt.

Her breathing is still rushed and with a soft laugh she buries her face in her hands, no doubt overwhelmed with what has just transpired on stage. He feels his heart pound faster. The blush of excitement becomes her too much for his liking. He will undoubtedly not be the only one who eyes her with admiration. At the thought of eager suitors in the audience who might even dare to imagine stopping by her chamber after the performance his blood reaches a dangerous boiling point. It is already up and pumping, thanks to her splendid performance.

He had watched her, of course. He would not miss her great moment on stage for anything in the world. How long had they practiced? How long had he made her stay awake and repeat that awful sequence that she would not manage again and again? How often had his critique reduced her to tears? How often had she tried - and failed - at the cadenza, only to finally hit that note with perfection?

It was all worth it. Not only to see the confident smirk be wiped from La Carlotta's doughy face but also just to see her. Her voice could not be hidden any longer. It needed to be free. It was made to fill opera houses and to enchant more than just her deformed tutor. And tonight she had finally managed to have the audience she deserved so well.

Time to let her hear his praise. Time to let her _feel_ it.

"Brava," he sighs into the silence, his voice as silky as her robe.

Christine lifts her head from her hands, the corners of her lips lowering in surprise. Maybe she thinks she imagined hearing him? Does she ever wish to hear him when he is not there? Does she imagine his voice, smiles her dazzling smile, only to have it falter because she has to find that he is in fact not there? Does she ever long for him like that? Like he does for her?

 _Pathetic idiot_ , he chides himself for his ridiculousness. He ought to turn around and leave, before he finds his head even fuller with such stupid notions. But he would not miss this moment with her for anything.

"Brava," he repeats instead, wishing to coax a grin back on her face.

Now she is sure she has heard him. And the smile she gives her own reflection in the mirror he is hiding behind shoots straight into his core.

"Bravissima!" he finishes, a grin etched into his features, transported onto his words.

"Angel," she breathes, full of pride and anticipation. Her eagerness to please is just one of the many things about her that drive a stake through his cold heart. She is so young, so naive and so trusting, especially with him.

With one little click, the mirror moves aside and reveals the figure lurking behind it. There is no other word for it: He has been waiting ever since she had left the stage, waited less like a faithful pet but more like a lovesick fool.

She rises from her stool and faces him, expectancy and joy mirrored in her gleaming eyes. Her hands are folded demurely in front of her stomach and she no doubt awaits his response to her performance, his critique and hopefully also his praise.

"Lock the door, Christine," he orders, though not unkindly. The door to her dressing room is closed, but not yet locked. And he does not want to be disturbed.

Her cheeks blush a shade deeper, but she obeys without hesitation. As the key turns in the lock, he silently moves closer to her. His head dips lower and he traces the contour of his lips along her exposed neck. The way she shivers in response causes his blood to gather in his groin.

He feels her sigh slightly and close her eyes.

"Did I...," she hesitates, "did I do good?"

He wants to laugh. Good? _Good?_ "Exceptionally good," he replies and admires the little goose bumps that form on her neck. Timidly his hands reach her sides, gliding along the dip between her waist and her hip. That she would still let him touch her is a miracle to him. And he is too selfish to deny himself such beauty as long as it is offered willingly. Even under false pretences.

She leans back into his touch, her fingers still settled on the key in the lock.

"I thought of you when I sang," she admits, shyly. "I had hoped that you were listening. I sang for you only."

If only she knew what these words do to him. He abandons his soft touches and opts now for more demanding trails down her neck, kissing the skin he can find. Her hands move from the door to his on her body, one hand intertwining with one of his, while the other guides his other hand up her waist to where her dress clings tightly to her breasts and he takes it as an invitation to let his fingers trail the hem of her dress.

She must feel his reaction to her through the thin fabric of her dressing gown judging by the way she rubs against him. She is not allowed to touch him and she fully knows that. That does not keep her from teasing him, however. The innocent girl is not so innocent anymore.          

He can't remember how they ended up in this twisted situation. He had given Madame Giry his word to behave and he had really believed them, at least at first. He had tutored her, schooled her voice, helped her with her training, and had fully meant to be nothing but the docile angel that she had imagined him to be. But his resolve had soon slipped. One touch of his hand to hers her, one little kiss on the cheek there. And every time he had pushed forward to her, she had acquiesced and not shied away. Little temptress. His resolves had melted away and now they were here, doing whatever it was that they were doing.

He soon has her on the bed, her skirts pushed away, every bit of fabric out of the way so he can find that wet warmth in between her legs and show her just how _pleased_ he is with her. Her divine voice is soon reduced to little mewls and sighs, depending on how he moves his tongue. And as he adds his fingers, first one, then two, she is reduced to breathy sighs. Her thighs rubs against his face and one of his hands grasp her hips so tightly that he is sure he will leave a bruise.

Let there be marks, he thinks recklessly. It is moments like these that he wishes his and her last shred of propriety could be forgotten. He wishes to take her fully, to have her on top of him, underneath him, entangled with his limbs and fully make her his. Without having to worry to leave her precious virginity for her future husband. Because he could never be that future husband and it makes him both furious and sick. He will find his own pleasure later, alone in his abode, with nothing but his hand and the smell and feel of her still on his tongue and skin. And will feel the usual disgust with himself and hatred towards her. Not that that would not be forgotten the moment another lesson would start. He would always return.

His mask has started to chafe the sensitive skin underneath as it rubbed against her thigh. The rawness underneath the heavy lacquered wood was a price he had to pay after every one of their encounters. But what were inconveniences such as these compared to knowing that it was him who coaxed these delicious sounds out of her?

If only he could remove he mask. If only he was brave enough and she strong enough to see, to _bear_ what was the truth. If only she could see and accept and know. He would put his full capacity to good use on her to show her just how much she was adored and desired. He would not have to tilt his head as to keep the mask from getting in the way of his lips. He would use his full mouth, the whole and the deformed side, on her, and feel her pleasure fully. Feel the warmth of her thighs on both his cheeks, nuzzle her with his non-existent nose and not have her shy away from the cool wood on his face.

"Angel..." she sighs liquidly, her hands fisting the bed sheet as she squirms. She must be close to finishing.

A joyless laughter echoes in his mind. Angel, yes, of course, that was who she pictured between her legs with his mouth and fingers on her. _If_ he had the bravery to remove his mask, to move as he pleased, to fully be with her and show himself, he would shake her out of this silly notion. That it was not a heavenly creature pleasuring her and giving her the exquisite moments, but an old and ugly man, nipping at her heels like a beaten dog that needed her light to survive.

 

Her head is light with lust and she drowns in the warmth his movements spread through her body. She feels the pleasure radiating from the soles of her feet to the tips of her breasts. Her hands twitch with the desire to grasp his face, to caress his cheek, to return even just a single kind of touch. But she knows she is not allowed. As keen as he is on touching and feeling her, he rebukes any kind of approach from her, sometimes violently. She has learned not to try anymore, for the fear of scaring him away. And every time he leaves in a furious fit, her heart breaks with fear that he might not return.

"More," she keens and he obeys. He has taught her so much about her voice and even more about herself. She wishes they would abandon this silly play, this pretence of distance while they are obviously both no longer just a teacher and his student.

She is close, so very very close to that beautiful crescendo of sensations and opens her eyes just a fraction. She needs to see him, to connect her climax to his image. He is too preoccupied to notice, his whole focus on bringing her to that edge she so enjoys. Her eyelids are heavy with lust, and yet, propped up on one of her cushions, she can spot that little gap between his mask and his skin. Puckered, angry skin is what she sees, a greyish tint to his complexion and as he tilts his face to hit that sweet spot that makes her gasp, she can see the hole where a nose ought to be.

And then, she breaks apart, her body flying with that hot wave of pleasure and her hands let go of the sheet as she falls back into she cushion. Her body is sore and tired and content and in this moment, nothing else matters but knowing that he is here with her.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he lifts himself off the floor and turns his back to her. She props herself up on her elbows and follows his movements as he wipes his face with a handkerchief which then disappears again in his pocket. He smoothes over his beautiful suit and straightens his collar, removing any trace of what has just transpired. Disappointment settles in her stomach. As he turns to face her again, he looks as impeccable as he did when he entered her room this evening.

"Stay," she pleads silently. She can see his own desire still unsatisfied in his pants and longs for him to lay beside her, to stay the night and let her do for him what he so unfailingly has done for her for so many months now. Why should only he show his adoration for her? She wants to know his name, to have him here and to sleep beside him in her little bed.

His eyes find hers and she hopes her feelings are as open in her eyes as they feel inside of her. If only he would stay and let her convince him. She is no longer the girl that imagined a personified angel in order to deal with the death of her father. She is a woman, a woman nearly grown, and her desires for him surpass anything she has ever felt.

But his eyes are closed off and he ignores her pleadingly outstretched hand. "I will let you sleep now. We will meet tomorrow for our lesson. I expect you to be well-rested, we will need to work on your voice if you plan on performing every night from now on."

Before she can beg once more, he turns and opens the mirror. Christine falls back into her bed, hurt and angry at his stubborn refusal to allow her to take the next step. She reaches for her blanket and turns her back to him, not wanting him to see the tears in the corners of her eyes. She dims the light of her lamp and closes her eyes.

From the hidden door, she hears his voice a last time.

"Goodnight, my Christine." And then he is gone and the room is silent.

           

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to be fully Phantom/Erik-POV and I fully blame Christine for making me include her.


End file.
